As we all know, space looks dark and feels really, really big. But what does it smell like? That question has been put to a PhD student at the University of Westminster, Marina Barcenilla, who is a space scientist and a perfumer.
Barcenilla has been busying herself in a laboratory, preparing the smells of the universe as part of a new exhibition, Space: Could Life Exist Beyond Earth?, at London’s Natural History Museum.
Frankly, I have to wonder why. Jupiter is one enormous sulphide stink bomb. Neptune reeks of a long neglected kitty litter tray and Uranus – Uranus smells exactly like you imagine it would. Venus is especially smelly. Don’t get me started on comets.
In 2014, the European Space Agency’s Rosetta probe bounced its lander Philae on to the surface of comet 67P/Churyumov-Gerasimenko. The anchors of the craft failed and the lander’s final resting point was nowhere near its proposed landing site.
Still, Philae transmitted data and video from the comet’s surface, despite sitting in a cocktail of nose-burning molecules – a heady mix of ammonia, hydrogen sulphide, with just a hint of almonds, the telltale piquancy of the presence of hydrogen cyanide.
Philae went into hibernation mode within three days of its crash landing and fell silent altogether seven months later. Its mother probe spotted it, dangling from a cliff, during an orbit of the comet. It’s understandable. Rosetta banked one final time and smashed into 67P/Churyumov-Gerasimenko on September 30, 2016, making a solid contribution to the general untidiness of the comet. And the smell!
Closer to home, it seems less dangerous. Possibly a shift from Group One carcinogens to Group Two A or B.
Astronauts on the Apollo missions who walked the lunar surface would sometimes clamber back into the modules and remark on the smell of gunpowder.
Space walkers at the International Space Station have returned through the airlocks, taken their helmets off and spoken of the whiff of burnt steak.
I understand why museums have become hellholes of push-button silliness in the interests of sensual immersion in recent times. They have to do these things. They’re up against the entertainment industry, for God’s sake. They can never win. But on this occasion, are they willing to carve out a narrow slice of an audience by waving a burnt T-bone around?
London’s National History Museum can’t provide the smells of space without killing a lot of people, all of whom are paying customers. Legally, it probably isn’t allowed to make punters’ eyes water. Why not just be upfront? Why not just say: “We can’t actually give you the smells of space. They are pretty much all Group One carcinogens and the lawyers have said no. Here’s some almonds, though. Knock yourselves out on those. Actually, we’ve just heard from the lawyers again and I have been reminded to refrain from using the phrase, ‘Knock yourselves out.’ The prior use was regrettable. We do not intend or wish to knock anyone out.”
The show will go on, presumably, by splashing any one of a number of brand-name household cleaners around while wafting a couple of incontinent cats about. I go to Neptune twice a week, by the way. We have two cats. Neptune beckons in the oddest places.
I am not unaccustomed to the presence of methane, sporadic and unpredictable though it may be, and yes, I have plucked things out of the refrigerator that smelled very much like Uranus. In fact, I smell space all the time.
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